Freelance
Traveller

Part 26

The Waffles had dropped out of
Transition almost right on the pin, with an official Crossing of Six
Days, 17 Hours and thirty nine Minutes; only a few hours difference from
Astrogator Tower's projection.

Coming out at a little more than three AU Outsystem from the brightly
lit red subdwarf, DM-45 5378, the Waffles
was orbiting eighty-eight degrees off the System Plain at a mere one
hundred million kilometers, at minimal power and thrust, and using
passive sensors, when using them at all—sneaking along.

Kalifra’s information from the old sweat had been accurate. The
system they saw was filled in all directions with the ruins of probably
two hundrerd combat ships scattered everywhere; some remaining in almost
pristine condition; others in recognizable pieces and hunks of various
types and size, and some scattered in smashed pieces with origins hard
to determine; all orbiting around the subdrawf accompanied by a broken
field of deadly flotsam, human bodies and debris traveling from a few
hundred meters to several thousand kilometers per second; and making for
the possibility of a fierce rain for anyone attempting EVA in the red
star’s light.

Orbiting amongst the wreckage at 1 AU, was the largest object in the
system, the Imperial Navy’s Fuel Purification Station which had been
hammered to shreds and which, at some point in the battle, had been
rammed through and through, by the remains of a mangled Rebel Cruiser.

“Gods’ Blood!” Brodie gasped as he first looked at the carnage
through the front viewport, then through the Scanners.

Most everyone on the Waffles was just
plain mesmerised by the scale of the slaughter. The majority of the crew
had battled with pirates before, losing a few shipmates who were plain
too unlucky.

But the colossal scale of the destruction here, with tumbling hulks
and shrapnel near at hand, and mangled bodies everywhere you looked, was
awful and terrifying, and few there were aboard, except First Officer
Milo Hertzog (who’d been a Naval Tactician) and Kalifra Donaldson (who’d
lived through a number of such actions as a Marine), who could
truthfully say they’d seen it before, and could suggest one stay steely
in such a time of crisis.

One of the largest pieces of flotsam that kept passing nearby was a
frigate; snapped in two just abaft of the bridge, and coming by within
about 10 kilometers of the Waffles. Twenty
eight hours later, on the frigate’s third pass. the Captain ordered ‘the
Professor’ to close with it. At about half a kilometer the Captain
ordered Boarding Pikes away, and in a wrenching blast, most of the dozen
lined, heavy pikes struck home.

An order was given and heavy winches deployed to hoist away; pulling
the Waffles closer and closer to the
ruined ship, until the smaller merchant was within the shadow of the
larger frigate, the Aaron Burr.

At a distance of some twenty meters, the
Waffles’ airlock wormed its way forward, extending until it was
in contact with the Burr, powerful magnets
holding the access tube in place. A heavy laser cutter built into the
docking mechanism quickly burned its way through the
Burr’s hull; a solid ‘KLUNK’ attesting to
the breach, and a signal on the atmosphere sensor letting the giant
chimp who was manning the sensors aboard Waffles
know that all was green: a positive lock and positive atmosphere.

Standing in the the airlock waiting for the word was Kalifra, in a
battered patchwork of Combat Armor; the helmet of which had been
replaced with an Aretiusian helmet designed to resemble an ancient,
crested, Corinthian helmet. In addition to her New Texas Ironmongery
automatic rifle, she carried a boarding pike with her figure eight
shield.

Next to and a little behind her stood Tam in a surplus Navy combat
suit. Her kit consisted of a pair of cross-draw holsters sporting a pair
of Artisan 7mm needlers. In a cut-away holster low on her right thigh
was a Singh-Iwane 20mm flamer. Her salmon greaves with magnetic boots
were, of course, on. The suit’s helmet had been replaced with an
Aretiusian combat helmet designed to resemble an ancient, Attic helmet,
which Tam found pretty.

Milo Hertzog, Number One, wore a worn suit of full combat armor with
a chipped finish from his days in the Navy, and carried a heavy
Koenig-Herzog 8-gauge autoshotgun and a boarding axe.

The fourth in the group was Dave Trajillo. He was wearing a Combat
Suit under loose-fitting robes, and carried a superdense Haligan Tool,
and several breaching charges.

Last into the airlock was Kelowna Brewster, wearing the breastplate
and open-faced helmet from an old set of combat armor over a new combat
suit, and carrying a stun rifle, a computer repair kit, and a carpet bag
full of electronic odds and ends.

When the airlock doors opened, a scrap of paper was blown into the
Waffles from the
Burr. “Alright, people, we have atmosphere from here over to
somewhere in the Burr,” said Number One.

“Damned Ghost Ship!” Ilsa grumbled from the Big Chair over on the
Waffles.

“Mmmm,” mumbled Tam, “I guess that was the Official Word, then?”

At a motion from Hertzog, Kalifra went into the
Burr first; followed by Number One as they
entered a ramshackle crew bunkroom; and found the large room empty,
except for eleven dessicated crew; six still in their bunks.

“Number One?” Ilsa asked from the Waffles,
following a bit more silence than she’d been comfortable with.

As Hertzog talked, a sudden slamming, hammering shocked the First
Officer into firing off his K&H Heavy on full-auto; boiling away five
rounds in a second and a half of three-round bursts as he sought cover
behind a very large, broken, Refusebot.

Kalifra was down on one knee, behind a wide column; rifle ready to
fire.

“Its nothing!” she cried. “Hold your fire!”

Hertzog waited.

Ilsa waited.

Everyone waited.

After a few minutes of waiting, a sudden slamming, which turned into
a long hammering, could be heard pounding against the plasteel viewport
and hull wall in the bunk room.

“Damn! It’s a swarm of fragments! Shrapnel from Outside!” Hertzog
said over the comm, feeling like the Dumbest Monkey on Monkey Mountain.

“Brother, do I hate salvage,” Tam said from the bottom rack in which
she had jammed herself, belly down; flamer in hand.

“Room Clear,” Milo announced over the comm.

“Roger that, Hertzog: Room Clear,” Number Two repeated back.

For awhile, the metal slamming into the plasteel interested everyone,
until Hertzog picked up his rifle and asked Kalifra, “Ready?” as they
made ready to clear the second room; the others holding back until they
received the word everything was alright.

The second room was a long Mess Hall, with food storage and
preparation along the port wall behind the serving line; the rest of the
room being made up of a now jumbled mass of short and long tables with
scores of chairs scattered about.

Once identified as Clear, the Waffles’
group gave the Mess the once over; checking the pantry over to find the
rations that were still viable, ancient cans of Major Strong’s Iron
Rations and crates of Everfresh sandwiches among a plethora of other
items. And, of course, the best find in the Mess: the spirits, both
brewed and distilled.

Once found, everyone but Dave took a slug of something.

As Number One coughed after taking a second pull of some bottle, he
said, “This stuff is very fine, no doubt. But the best, like on all
ships,” he laughed, “will be found, like the safe, in the Captain’s
Quarters.”.

As the gang went about listing and talking about assorted goods, both
with each other and the others back on the
Waffles, Captain Fyyg and Frielander checked through the 5600’s
newly upgraded database. Not very long later, deckplans common with
their treasure trove, the ancient frigate, as well as the frigate that
was somewhere out there patrolling, were found.

Ilsa read over the plans and directed the group to where Fyyg wanted
them to go.

Sucking it up, Kalistra went first up the ladder that lead to the
forward starboard quarter of the Fuel & Quarters Deck—Officer Country.

Securing the hatch, the others were called up into a wide passageway
that ran between a wall of fuel tanks with access hatches, and the
warren that was the Officers’ area.

Lying at the warren’s entrance was a burnt body in a burnt pressure
suit; seeming not as old as the dessicated bodies found earlier. Dave
was of the opinion that this one was a more recent addition to the ship.
Probably a scavenger bent on salvage until…something.

They switched up and Hertzog went first, followed up by Donaldson as
they moved around corners and down halls indicated by Ilsa’s directions.
Milo stealthfully took a right corner; ‘slicing the pie’ and finding a
wide shouldered, neckless Warbot, bristling with hardware and hovering
about a half-meter off the deck.

Milo squeezed off several bursts at the ancient robot—the heavy slugs
mainly producing dents and slight damage to the thing’s carapace, though
the sudden impacts had managed to knock the Warbot back—as the menacing
thing fired a white-hot, jagged stream of boiling energy toward Hertzog.

“DOWN!” Milo screamed as he dove for the deck; the spattering plasma
blowing through the corner Milo had just come around and the one behind
him where Kalifra squatted holding her high-powered rifle; the molten
slag splashing them, and continuing along the robot’s line of fire,
burning through wall panels and corners to finally hit the Port hull
with a sizzling, sun-bright explosion.

As the explosion of plasma flashed, Tam grabbed Kelowna and turned
her toward the opened hatch behind them—their access to this deck—and
yelled, “RUN!” Punching Dave Trajillo in the shoulder, she pointed
toward the hatch and yelled, “RUN!” again.

Watching Dave and Kelowna run, Tam thought, was like watching statues
run. Or cows, like on Olde Earth. Or statues of cows. God! How could
they be so slow? she wondered.

Then it came to her that she didn't know what to do. Should she run
or should she stay, she wondered. Run?…Stay?…Run?…Stay?…

Kalifra, in her smoldering armor had already unloaded the heavy
autorifle’s load of Heavy Uranium slugs into the oncoming robot once—the
rounds knocking holes through even the Warbot’s heavy armor—and was
loading a fresh magazine into the weapon when, only a few meters from
Milo, the Warbot swung a double saw-arm.

Hertzog, in his suit of smoldering armor, parried with his firearm,
blocking the robot’s strikes but destroying his own weapon in the
process; the dual saws filling the air with shrapnel before they
themselves ceased to operate.

Swinging its damaged double-arm in a fierce uppercut, the Warbot
connected with Hertzog; folding him in half over its large forearm, and
easily hurling him up over its left shoulder, to be slammed senseless
against a wall before falling to the deck; boarding axe still slung over
his shoulder.

Kalifra fired from a squatting position, rapidly emptying the second
magazine into the thing and then jamming a third magazine into the
weapon.

As she retreated, the Warbot raised its arm again—the one that’d
fired the plasma bolt at them a lifetime before. For a brief second,
Kalifra looked into the bore of the ancient robot’s plasma gun,
expectantly. Then nothing happened. Maybe the robot's age, or one of the
Uranium rounds had shorted something; making it impossible for the thing
to generate any more high energy plasma.

The next second, the robotic killer altered its aim slightly, and
poured a stream of liquid fire at Donaldson; enveloping her in flames.

Kalifra’s combat armor, however, was proof against flames, and she
continued to concentrate heavy rifle fire on the robot.

The Warbot closed, and with one of its heavy arms, made a wide-jawed
grasp for the human with one of its large, smashing hands; barely
missing snipping off the Aretuisian’s head as the woman threw herself
back; rifle dropping.

A tentacle slithered from the bot and quickly snatched up Kalifra’s
heavy rifle, aiming it at her and firing. Unfortunately finding the
weapon empty.

As the big blond scrambled to get out of the robot’s way, the
tentacle swung and brought the rifle down across the woman’s shoulder
blades; sending her forward to slam into a corner; shaken, as the robot
closed to bludgeon her to death.

Suddenly from behind the Warbot was a flash of energy as First
Officer Hertzog buried the boarding axe he’d carried deep into the
robot’s back, right at the junction where its head and wide shoulders
met. The robot lurched sideways, wrenching the axe handle from Milo’s
grip as the device tottered forward and dropped to the deck.

Pulling the axe free with a great effort, Hertzog chopped the thing’s
tentacle off with a single stroke. Dropping the axe, he picked up
Donaldson’s heavy rifle, then stepping over to Kalifra herself, he
pulled a magazine of the heavy ammo from her equipment belt and loaded
the weapon.

Hertzog emptied the entire clip into the damaged robot’s head at
point-blank range; the rounds blowing its brains to mangled, ruined bits
of metal and silica.

And then the half minute—or minute—long firefight was over just like
that, the combatants now only really able to communicate at length with
the Waffles.

Kalifra had been reduced to her cutlass, and the last magazine of her
combat load for the heavy rifle, while Milo was in possession of the
empty 15mm autorifle. Their combat armor was no longer smoldering when
Tam finally reached them.

Sitting on the chassis of the ruined robot, Kalifra handed her last
mag over to Hertzog, then, looking up at Tam, asked, “Loan me one of
your 7mms, Little Sister?”

Tam pulled the right handed needler and handed it over to the big
blond. Then, digging free three magazines for the needler, she passed
them over to Kalifra as well.

“Good,” the blond said to the other two. “Now I feel less naked.”

On the comm, Donaldson asked the Second Officer, “So, which way to
get to the Captain’s Quarters from here, Ilsa?”

“It’s like a maze, hon’!” interrupted Tam. “Stick to the right hand
wall going in. So we do that!” the little brunette offered. “I don’t
know if it’s true, but that’s what I’ve always heard.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, love…” Hertzog began, only to be
interrupted by Ilsa with proper directions to the Captain’s Quarters.

“Lets get it done,” Kalistra said.

Maneuvering down T halls, and slicing tight corners, the trio finally
made it to their objective; several quick butt strokes of the rifle
laying open the Captain’s desk to them.

Clearing out the desk, everything went into Kalifra’s backpack, from
Ship’s Papers, down to paperclips. At the bottom drawer, Tam pulled out
a thick-cut, old bottle of Newton & McCenna single-malt Scotch. When the
others saw it they smiled.

“Captain Fyyg,” Tam called over the comm, “you can pour that bottle
of Old Newshound down the fresher, sweetie. We’ve found you the white
whale.”

“From which you’re more than welcome to have a shot, providing you
are able to crack the ship’s safe!” Fyyg replied.

Checking the cabin wall behind the desk with the augmented sensors of
his combat armor, Milo stared close at the panel; seeing the lock and
hinge-placement for the safe’s door. Pulling a piece of chalk from his
kit, Hertzog marked the wall at the safe’s outer edges, as well as hinge
and locking mechanism locations before passing the rifle over to Kalifra.

“You’re the marksman, I’ve been told,” Number One said, taking the
needle pistol.

They all retreated into the hall, and Kalifra quietly aimed around
the corner at the marked spots; smoothly firing in turn at hinges and
lock with the heavy Uranium rounds. As the sound of the rounds echoed,
the heavy door teetered, then fell forward, smashing the desk to pieces.

Checking the walk-in safe, a dozen crates of pharmaceuticals were
found stored, half of which were likely well-past their indicated shelf
life.

In addition was collected more than eighteen and a half million
Ducats in Principality currency. Which today might be worth as much as
seven hundred thousand in Imperial Credits.

But the safe’s content, really, was just the icing on the cake when
compared to the raw salvage value associated with the wrecked
Principality ship—the drives, the trio of powerplants, turret and
barbette weapons, missiles, Ship's Vehicles, even the vessel's wiring
could be sold off, as free and clear profit.